Gods and Men- The Hank Boyd Omnibus Page 4

  “And what of Egypt?” he asks.

  I swipe to a new page.

  “Apparently,” I say scanning the screen, “Thoth, the Egyptian god of writing, mathematics, and astronomy, was said to have come from a western island, from across the sea.”

  “I guess the sea could be the water the Sahara was once under?” Dad surmises.

  “I agree, and the first land Thoth and company found would eventually become ancient Egypt.”

  It all sounds plausible, but still a little far-fetched.

  I continue reading. “Like we all know, a catastrophe occurred that forced the Atlanteans from their homeland. It was said to be big enough to decimate the region and the land encompassing it. This could be the reason for the water to recede and for the rivers to dry up. It also says that Thoth was a king before he became a god. He was made a god because of the knowledge he gave the natives of the region. They viewed him as one from then on and really, who could blame them?”

  “So,” Dad deduces, “a colossal natural disaster of some kind destroys an island kingdom to the west. Thoth, the king, leads his people across a sea to the land that would become Egypt. He gives his wisdom to the original inhabitants of the land, and they make him a god.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I guess it’s possible.”

  DING.

  “We will now be making our descent,” the intercom says, crackling to life. “Thank you for flying with us and enjoy your day.”

  Ω Ω Ω

  We land in Algiers, the capital of Algeria, without a hitch. There is barely a bump on the scorched runway and thank God for that. My headache and bruised chest could use the rest. I kind of figured landing this thing would be a cakewalk compared to the bobbing and weaving we did earlier. I think back to this morning’s events, not believing what happened.

  Geez, I think, shaking my head. Too bad we can’t drive back to America.

  The plane taxis to a stop and we are thanked for flying with them which I think is absurd. I feel like I should be bowing at and kissing the pilots’ feet right now for their efforts keeping me alive. Things could have turned out much, much worse if they reacted differently. Like, death-worse.

  Between the half a day flying and the ass-kicking I endured, I’m pretty much limping through the jetway. My head is pounding, and my body is aching. At least when I would usually feel like this, it would be after a late night out with the guys going bar hopping. Now…not so much. It feels like I went toe-to-toe with a rabid kangaroo on steroids.

  We make it through the first half of the airport without incident and arrive at baggage claim.

  “So,” I ask, “who’s your contact at the site?”

  Dad answers without looking up from the baggage conveyor belt, “He’s a local that was recommended to me by a colleague at the office. He came with very high praise.”

  The ‘office’ is a nickname of sorts that he has given to his workplace, the Smithsonian Institute, in Washington D.C.

  The Smithsonian isn’t just a museum--it’s a collection of nineteen museums, nine research centers, and of course you guessed it, a zoo. The main building, the Castle, was built in 1847 and is still its headquarters. It features the Smithsonian’s information center and administrative offices, the latter of which is where Dad is employed. He’s been a head researcher there for the last ten years after being one of their more respected historians and archaeologists. It was only a few months after he got the new gig that he hired some pain in the ass ex-athlete as an entry-level digger.

  Of the nineteen museums, eleven sit within the National Mall, running from the Lincoln Memorial to the United States Capital. Some of the Mall’s more popular attractions are the National Museum of American History, the National Museum of Natural History, the National Air and Space Museum, and a variety of other museums, parks, and memorials.

  “What’s his name?” I ask, doing my best to not sound untrusting… But I am. I don’t trust anyone I don’t already know. Call it my natural pessimism about people.

  He looks up at me with an indifferent look on his face, not sensing my trepidation. “Omar, his name is Omar.”

  8

  Tiska Djanet Airport

  Djanet, Algeria

  Roughly 924 miles south of Algiers was the small town of Djanet—an oasis of sorts. It lay on the southwest border of the Tassili n’Ajjer National Park, making it popular with outsiders. The city had a populace of approximately 15,000 people, of which was mostly the Kel Ajjer Tuareg—a friendly and humble people.

  Djanet had been called ‘The Jewel of the Desert’ by travelers for years, and the local economy relied heavily on tourism. There were no lodgings such as hotels, motels, or bed and breakfasts, leaving only a camping site available to outsiders. The only other option was to bunk with one of the locals in their homes, and with the harsh economy the way it was… Well, let’s just say the accommodations outdoors weren’t much worse.

  The park itself held many sites to visit, including the Tassili rock paintings. It was one of the most visited spots in the entire region and was labeled a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. They named it one because they felt that the geological formations and rock art still had importance and value that was worth protecting.

  Omar Jafari waited impatiently in the front seat of his heavily worn Land Rover outside the Djanet airport. The abused air conditioning did its best to keep the ever-increasing temperature at bay, but he knew that it wouldn’t live for much longer. The vehicle had seen better days for sure.

  He hated his job with an unbridled passion. Trekking all over the burning desert, brown-nosing rich, pompous Americans had worn on him over the years. Still, he knew the money was too good to pass up, and he couldn’t afford to quit in years past. That is until this specific expedition was scheduled. Like all the others before, they were heading out to Tassili, but not to the rocks. No, these people were heading for a new ruin that was uncovered by last week’s sandstorm. They had promised twice his wage for his silence as well.

  Why are they so hell-bent on getting to Tassili? Omar thought. It’s just a bunch of weather-worn rocks and dirt. Unless this new discovery is more than just another pile of rubble like some have rumored? We will have to just wait and see, now won’t we?

  Omar’s phone rang.

  “Yes?” he said, answering it, uninterested.

  “Mr. Jafari, is that you? It’s Dr. Boyd.”

  Sitting forward with a practiced reluctant joyfulness, Omar replied, “Why yes, Dr. Boyd, it is. Have you landed in Algiers?”

  “Yes, we have. Is everything proceeding as scheduled?”

  Right to business as usual.

  “Yes sir, it is. Your assistant is at the site as we speak, getting the excavation underway. There are teams of diggers working in shifts round-the-clock like you ordered and all the supplies you sent ahead are being unpacked and checked.”

  “You’re a good man, Omar.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They signed off a moment later.

  Omar knew they had another ninety-minute flight to Djanet to catch and then the Boyd’s would arrive. He reclined his seat, having nowhere else to go, and turned the A.C. up to high. Whatever gas he would waste sitting here would just go into his expenses at the end of the job. They were a separate payment outside of his personal income. He’d rest for another hour, hoping his AC wouldn’t crap out again.

  “Just think,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “By this time next week, I’ll be able to use this money and leave this hellhole for good. I could move to Algiers maybe? Get a better, quieter job.”

  He softly counted his new-found wealth and drifted off to sleep, remembering another obligation he needed to fill. He would do his part and take his employers out to the new dig, but once his professional responsibility was over, he would see to another one… A personal one.

  9

  Algiers International Airport

  Algi
ers, Algeria

  “Dad, you get your bags?” I ask, my rolling suitcase at my side. I have my carry-on slung over my shoulder, ready to move out. I don’t really want to go outside right now, but know I don’t really have a choice. Plus, staying in an international airport where very few people speak a discernable amount of English is what I’d call fun.

  My father double checks that he has everything, nods and hangs up his phone, tucking it into his pocket.

  “That was Omar,” Dad says. “He’s at the Djanet airport waiting for us.”

  “Already?” I ask, looking down at my watch. “Man, this guy is punctual. He’s two hours early.”

  “Like I said before, he came highly recommended and—”

  Dad is cut off by a massive explosion that rips through the concourse. Smoke and debris are thrown everywhere, and people lay all over the place. So are bodies. Some of them aren’t moving either.

  “Mother—”

  Another large explosion hits. This one’s so close it knocks everyone, including us, to the ground. Sirens wail from every corner of the airport, blasting like a Cold War-era air raid drill.

  “Dad!” I yell, my ears ringing, barely hearing my own words. It sounds like I’m underwater or something. Dad’s on his hands and knees shaking his head, trying to clear the cobwebs—as am I—but otherwise he looks unharmed.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask, trying to clear my own clouded mind.

  He shakes his head again and gets to one knee—right as we hear extremely loud and rapidly popping fireworks. But, it takes me all of half a second to realize those aren’t firecrackers.

  Gunshots, I think.

  Screw getting to my knees.

  I jump to my feet and bolt for my dad. Every square inch of my body screams in pain like I’ve been slammed into by a freight train. I manage to grab him by his shirt collar and pull him back towards the baggage claim area.

  We need to find somewhere to hide.

  More automatic gunfire erupts further down the concourse, followed quickly by a smattering of what sounds like return fire. I take a quick peek back and see four airport police officers huddled behind a table and a nearby ATM. A round from the attackers punches into the money giving machine, and suddenly dozens of bills start spewing everywhere. It looks like the confetti party at the end of the Super Bowl.

  To my amazement, people actually dash out of cover to grab some of the cash. That is, until one of them is hit by a stray round and collapses in a spray of blood on the floor.

  Dear God, I think, staring blankly at the man. He was maybe in his mid-thirties at most. He may have even had a family or friends waiting for him outside the terminal ready to pick him up.

  Dad finally comes to his senses and grabs my arm and yanks—just as a bullet sizzles past my head and embeds itself into the wall behind me.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t mention it,” he unnecessarily shouts back, squinting his eyes like he has a migraine. I guess his ears are still ringing too.

  Another round whistles by the both of us and we take off running, back through the door we just exited not moments ago. Hopefully, we can find somewhere to hide—or better yet—a quick escape to the outside.

  Not a moment after we duck inside the large room, the glass door closing behind us shatters into a million pieces. We get covered in glass, some of it cutting the back of my neck. Dad fares better since he was in front of me, my body blocking his.

  “Dammit,” I curse, stumbling, instinctively reaching for the injured area. I can feel a warm liquid running down my neck, soaking the back of my shirt collar.

  Dad grabs me and arrests my fall. His hands come away covered in blood…my blood. He looks at them, shocked to see the crimson staining his skin. I don’t let him ponder it though. I shove him towards a nearby luggage window, and we dive in together.

  We land on top of one another with an awkward thump and don’t continue forward. It’s then I realize that the conveyor belts have stopped. A precaution due to the sirens, I guess. But honestly, I don’t care, we just scramble to our feet and run.

  The baggage sorting area we just entered is a maze of conveyor belts and other machinery. We continue our mad dash, running on a ramp that’s ten feet off the ground and unfortunately…it’s full of stalled out bags too. So, I guess running isn’t really the right word. It’s more like we’re very bad Olympic hurdlers, training for a competition neither one of us belongs in.

  We take a step and leap, take a step and leap, and take another step and then jump again. I’m exhausted after twenty feet of this crap. Dad, on the other hand, was done after less than half that distance. He stumbles over a golf bag and goes ass-over-teakettle, slamming into a hard, plastic suitcase. He hits the bag and rolls off of it, landing with a groan. I turn and rush back to him, finding him lying on his back, panting for air like a tired dog.

  I bend down next to him and start hauling him up. He struggles to get back to his feet but jumps up when a door slams open nearby, and we hear people screaming. The worst part is, they don’t sound friendly.

  We’re about to continue our mad dash to safety, but I look down at our feet and smile. Dad doesn’t notice the change in my expression until I bend down.

  “What the hell are you so happy about?” he asks, nervously watching me. “We don’t have time for—”

  “Do you prefer woods or irons?” I ask, interrupting him, a smile forming.

  Apparently, my humor doesn’t really work in a live-or-die type of setting, because I don’t exactly get the reaction I’m looking for. Let’s just chalk this one up to bad timing.

  “Are you kidding me?” Dad hisses. “We’re about to die, and all you can do is think of a joke.”

  I’m obviously not since I now have a set of golf clubs strapped to my back.

  “We don’t have time for this Harrison, we need to leave!”

  I’m about to agree with him and tell him it’s a precaution. I truthfully don’t want to be unarmed. This is just in case we run into anyone who wants to shoot us.

  Another door about fifty feet to our left slams open. It’s followed by more voices speaking in hushed tones. I recognize the language, Arabic. I look over at Dad. He’s listening intently.

  He once had a fellow researcher who was on loan to the Smithsonian from a museum in the Middle East. They became good friends, and Dad learned a bit of Arabic in the process.

  Lucky us, I think.

  We kneel behind a couple of large rolling suitcases and look down towards the door as he quietly translates for me.

  Three men, all armed, burst through the doorway and stop. Two of them turn and begin to speak to the third man in the group.

  “Hassim, do you see them?”

  “No,” another voice answers. “What about you? Did you see where they went?”

  “Holy shit,” I whisper. “They’re looking for us?”

  “What could they possibly want?” Dad asks.

  “You don’t think it’s because of the site, do you?” I ask. It’s a farfetched idea, but the fame and potential fortune this could bring may be enough to kill for.

  “If it’s what we think…” he answers, letting his thought hang in the air for a moment. Then he continues, “It might be enough to go through all this trouble. People in these parts of the world are desperate and have killed for less.”

  I look back at Dad and hand him a five wood. “Here, take this.”

  He looks over the large boulder shaped head. It’s attached to a flexible, yet strong, graphite shaft, perfect for swinging…

  …at them, I think, looking back towards the gunmen.

  “Five wood?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

  I turn back, a hint of a smile forming on my lips. “Yeah…your short game sucks.”

  Ω Ω Ω

  Just before the Boyd’s entered the sorting room via the luggage ramp, the assault team’s Unit Leader keyed his earpiece, calling his team’s commander. The Operations Leader was a man
who went by the callsign, Wolf. A voice immediately boomed through his headset, startling the otherwise stoic killer.

  “Do you see them?” Wolf asked.

  “No sir, but Karakura and his team are tracking them down as we speak.”

  “Karakura?” Wolf asked.

  “Hassim, sir.”

  “Ah yes, Hassim. Very good then, Ahmed. Call me back as soon as you have what we need. Is that understood?”

  Ahmed Hajjar, also known as Viper to the others within his mercenary team, hated dealing with the commander, an American. He knew little about the pig, except his callsign. He was never able to use the handle though. No one was. The commander wanted his minions to only address him by his official title.

  Ahmed also believed that like most of the American’s he had dealt with in the past, Wolf had no respect for him or his fellow team members. It’s why he was called by them by their names and not by their operations handle. But, Ahmed also knew how dangerous the American was and that he was not to be trifled with. There were rumors he was in the United States Special Forces at one time, but Ahmed wasn’t sure if those stories held any water, or if they were fabricated as a scare tactic.

  Ultimate control was everything when you ran an outfit like this. Every single one of them had a less than legitimate past. All were ex-soldiers. Some were ex-Special Forces like the Wolf.

  “Yes sir, not a problem,” Ahmed answered, wanting nothing better than to get back to the task at hand. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  The call ended, and Ahmed cursed the man’s existence. Hopefully, this job would be over quickly like all the others he and his team had done in the past. He would hate to see what Wolf did to the men who failed him. If the rumors were true about the man having an affinity for using less-than-humane interrogation practices… Ahmed shook the thought from his head. He really didn’t want to find out.